I Missed the Bright Side
by DeamonFruba
Summary: Nine months ago she left him for her own Hell. Nine months ago he left for everyone's Hell. Did they destroy the only thing that can save them? And will a potential future be destoryed by their pasts? T with a future M. R&R please.
1. Prologue

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: So if you've already read this then please note that this is NOT NEW. It is a cleaned-up version so that I can continue more comfortably with the rest of the story. Typos have--hopefully--been fixed and a couple details here and there. But if you've read it and have no desire to _re_read it then sorry about the wait on the next chapter. Just ask Ava: I've been having a hell of a time with getting it out. But if you're new then feel free to read on. **

**Rating: M for sexual material and light language  
Spoilers: None as of yet but maybe later there are some for season two.  
Time Frame (in comparison to where we are in the show as of now): End of season two, maybe? They've been partners for two years.  
Disclaimer: Clones on a loan, baby. But as soon as they're on E-Bay I'm buying.  
Shout-outs: To all of you who have been supporting me! And if you are waiting on the next chapter for The Greatest Gift: I'm working on it, okay? The characters are on break, seeing as how they aren't so sure if they should consummate yet.  
Summary: You say that this was meant to help us. You said that it was what was GOOD for us. But we've both gone through hell. And, I don't know about you but I've missed any hint of a bright side of this dammed situation. So just explain to me what parts I've missed.

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**I Missed the Bright Side:**

The soft, moving lights of the city outside slid across the walls of the room as he stared at the ceiling, trying to sort out the tumultuous battle of emotions inside of him. He was in a place that he'd never thought he'd be. He'd dreamed about it quite often but never in his wildest moments did he think that he would ever really get this far. But here he was in his bedroom with someone else. Someone that he'd only dared dream about for the past two years.

Turning his head on the pillow to look at her, his fealt his breath hitch at what he saw. She was lying peacefully against him, her head tucked on his breastbone and her arm flung possessively over his middle. Her leg, bare and exposed where the sheet had slipped away, was wrapped around his own as well and overall the position made him feel as if he were whole. Careful not to wake her, he moved his arm that wasn't trapped under her body to tuck a stray lock of hair away from her face and behind her ear. She was so magnificently beautiful while she was asleep, he decided. There was something so surreal about seeing her allowing the walls around her heart fall away but last night she had done it so completely that they were still down, leaving him to be able to marvel at his luck.

But it was hard to fully enjoy the moment. The battle raged on as he looked away, blinking away the tear that threatened to escape. Usually, he wasn't afraid to cry. His philosophy was that it helped one recover sooner. But if he gave in and cried now then his resolve would more than likely be washed away by the tears. He had to do this. He had promised not only himself but others as well.

One half of him rebelled against the other part, saying to forget the imminent consequences and to stay here where he belonged and where he was safe. But the other part—the one that was logical—insisted that the cost would be too great if he stayed. Not only could he not afford to throw himself into this relationship as completely as he wanted to, but the plans had already been made and, arrogant man that he had been, he was already immersed in a world that he could not avoid. To stay away from what had to be done might cost lives. But to go and leave this place now would also mean that he would be leaving his heart behind.

The battle ceased for a moment as the woman next to him shifted and murmured his name. Turning to look at her, he smiled sadly. Her hand was moving against his skin and her brow was creased as she frowned at something that he couldn't see.

"Booth," she whimpered as she squirmed against him. She was breathing heavily and she shook her head in desperation. His throat tightened at the sound of his name slipping from her lips and gently he laid his hand on her shoulder, turning on the bed to pull her against his chest.

"Shh," he soothed, burying his face into her hair as he rubbed her back. "I'm here, Bones. I'm here."

She whimpered again and pressed her face deeper against his skin. He could feel her eyes open and she took a shuddering breath. Slowly, her breath steadied and she turned her face so that her cheek was resting on his chest. After a few moments of silence, Booth pulled away to look down at her. Pressing his lips against her sweaty forehead, he moved his hand to move over her hair.

"You okay?" he asked tenderly. She nodded slowly took a deep breath.

"I was just having a bad dream," she whispered as her fingers pressed into his flesh.

Knowing from her tone of voice that she wasn't going to expound on that statement, he moved his lips down to meet hers in a brief kiss. "I'm here now, Temperance. You don't need to worry."

She nodded again and smiled weakly. Moving her head forward, she pressed her lips against his again. After a few chaste kisses, she opened her mouth to him and their kisses became longer, more passionate as both felt their bodies waking up.

"You know what, Seeley?" she whispered softly when his lips traveled from her mouth to her neck. "I like waking up next to you."

He chuckled in amusement. "I like it too, Temperance." He neglected to mention that he hadn't slept at all while she had been in his arms. It didn't seem pertinent. Teasingly, he nipped at the delicate skin where her jaw, neck and ear met where he had recently discovered she was most sensitive. She hissed a curse as she arched her body against his and pressed her breasts against him.

"God," she murmured as his fingers trailed their way down her back to her butt. Pressing her up against his already hardened self, he nipped again before flipping their bodies so that he was on top. Moving his mouth back down her neck and to the swell of her breasts, he moved his hands to the tender joining of her thighs. Once again, she hissed her approval and dug her nails into his biceps. He whispered an incoherent response before taking her into his mouth and stroking her bundle of nerves at the same time. She cried his name, tipping her head back and lifted her body slightly from the bed to press her body closer to him.

He moved his lips from her breasts and smothered her protests with a fiery kiss on the mouth. Moving his hand from between her legs, he nudged her inner-thighs apart and gently pressed the tip of himself against her teasingly. When she bit his lip and tugged urgently, he plunged into her, burying himself in her wet walls. Together they laid perfectly still, their breaths coming out in unison as they tried to get used to the feeling of heat coursing through them. Then, as one, they began to move. Slowly at first, but then faster and harder they rode together, no sounds in the room but little gasps and moans of pleasure and the traffic outside. They reach that breaking point together, their sweaty bodies cresting and traversing the wave as one, releasing themselves into one another at the same moment.

It felt perfect, he realized with a sudden and painful jolt. It felt like coming home. And as they laid clutching each other and trying to remember how to breathe, he closed his eyes and willed himself to die. He hated himself at that moment. He hated himself more than he ever had in his lifetime—more than when Rebecca turned him down and made him believe he wasn't an adequate father and more than any of the times when he was a sniper during the war and shot men who had a wife and children waiting at home for him. He was going to rip not only his own heart out but hers as well. He was going to rip it out with his bare hands and he was going to be paid not to give a damn.

Closing his eyes, he ran his fingers up her sweaty back and into her hair. "I love you, Temperance," he whispered tightly. "I have loved you for years."

She nodded and smiled. "I know, Seeley. I love you too." She let out a small burst of laughter as her lips peppered kisses over his skin. "We're a pair, aren't we? Too afraid for years to admit our feelings and then when we finally do we go the whole fifteen yards."

"Nine yards, Bones," Booth chuckled as she fumbled on the phrase. "And yes." Pressing a kiss on her temple, he closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh. "But I think that it was well worth the wait, don't you?"

She nodded quietly and slid from her position beneath him. Pulling the blanket up from where it had fallen to the floor, she tucked it around them and curled up next to him. "I like being able to wake up in your arms, Booth," she repeated softly as she nestled her head under his chin. "I dreamt that you'd disappeared and I couldn't find you. I searched and searched but, when I did find you, you were so...different. I can't explain it but it scared me." She shook almost imperceptibly and her arm snaked out in search of his hand. Finding it, she twined her fingers with his and rested her hand against his, palm to palm. Sighing complacently, she closed her eyes. "I'm sorry for waiting so long, Seeley."

Booth shook his head and smiled. "It's okay, Bones. I'm here. I've got you." He pressed his lips against her head gently and stroked her back with his free hand. "I've got you, Bones," he repeated again and again until her breath came out evenly. Finally, he felt the fingers of sleep taking hold of him. Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard. "And I'm sorry, Bones...Temperance. God, I am so sorry."

…**BONES AND BOOTH BONES AND BOOTH BONES AND BOOTH BONES AND BOOTH…**

It was late. She had waited too long. She had delayed doing what she had to do so that she could remain just a few minutes longer in his arms and now she had to hurry. Slipping carefully from his arms, she reached for her discarded underwear that lay in a pile next to the bed. Then she went in search for her jeans which she found in the hallway next to the wall. Closing her eyes as she stuffed her legs into them, she blocked out the memory of his lips on hers as he pressed her urgently against that wall as they tried feebly to reach the bedroom in time. With that done, she scanned his living room for the last article of clothing—her shirt—and found it lying underneath his next to the couch where everything had begun.

When she was sufficiently clothed, she looked around the room once more before grabbing her coat from the closet and pulling the letter from the pocket. Quietly, she kissed it and placed it on the kitchen table. Then she turned her back on the room, trying harder to block out the pounding in her chest and the way that her throat swelled painfully in protest to what needed to be done. She had to do this. She didn't really have a choice in the matter when holding the two situations up to each other. She needed to forsake her old life and relationships in order to survive. And if breaking his heart was the only way...then so-be-it.

Squaring her shoulders, she walked up to the door and slid her feet inside her sandles before opening the door and slipping out of the apartment without looking behind her. Only when she was downstairs in her car did she look back up at the window that she knew to be his bedroom window. He would be waking up soon, she realized. And he would find her letter. He would heal, eventually. The human memory was like a sieve. Time healed all wounds eventually. She could attest to that to a degree. And, although part of her argued that she was wrong, she knew that they would both be able to recover from this betrayal.

So, looking away from the window and turning the key in the ignition, she drove away in the direction of the airport. And twenty minutes later, when his alarm clock rang out, Booth opened his eyes to find his apartment empty except for himself. When his eyes settled on the letter he felt the hole in his chest expand as he sank to the floor and finally let himself cry.

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**So I am sorry about how long it is taking me to write some of this stuff. Especially the Greatest Gift and this one. Don't hate me. cowers in corner as people throw the dreaded balls of cheese I hate cheese... Anyway, I want to extend a shout-out and a big THANK YOU to Ava. Words cannot adequately describe how much you have helped me. Even if I've only made a littel bit of progress, you made it happen. I'll spew to you anytime. :D **

**Hugs and loves to all of you and your patience!  
DeamonFruba**


	2. Chapter 1: Nine Months Later

**I'm baaack. It has been too many months since I last posted. I'm so sorry about that but I hit, not only a writer's block, but a brick wall. But here I am. This is the sequal to the prologue. It's placed about nine months later. If you haven't read the prologue I think that you might have to. And sorry that this one is so short. I promise that they will get longer. **

**Title: I Missed the Bright Side - Chapter One  
Rating: This is a mild PG. The M isn't until later unless you count the Prologue as an M...  
Spoilers: Not really. Minor ones for season two and maybe season one.  
Disclaimer: These are cloans on a loan. And let me just remind you: these characters have been through a LOT. You don't know it all yet but...they're going to act a little bit out of character. Just give them (and me) a chance.**

Read and enjoy!!!

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**Chapter One:**

_The human memory is like a sieve. Time heals all wounds eventually._ Temperance Brennan once believed that but now…now, as her eyes came to rest on the building in front of her, she felt the same ripping sensation in her stomach that she had felt nine months earlier. The pain had not gone away while she was in California. They had only ebbed away to hide just beneath the surface where they waited anxiously for the opportune moment to pounce on her.

And now that she was back in D.C. they were gnawing at her bones like a starving pack of blood-thirsty beavers.

Brennan let out an airy chuckle at the analogy. Andrew had rubbed off on her more than she had originally suspected. _'And what would he say now, if he were sitting right here in the seat next to you?'_ she asked herself, closing her eyes tightly to block out the pain.

"He would tell you to walk your skinny ass up there right now before it withers away and blows off into the wind," she whispered, answering herself and imagining that it was really him saying it. And with that small consolation, she turned off the car ignition and stepped out into the humid air.

She walked as quickly as possible, trying to get out of the unbearably thick air and into the cool setting of the Medico-Legal lab of the Jeffersonian. She found herself thinking nostalgically about the dry air back in California. Yes, it had been hot out there. But at least it wasn't so damn humid. Even after being home for two weeks and back at work for one week, she couldn't quite get used to the change in climate.

She let out a sigh of relief when she stepped in the front doors and made her way to her office, slowing her pace to a normal stride as she got closer. She was already slipping back into a semblance of her old routine, she realized as she walked through her office doors and slipped on her lab coat. When she got lost in looking at the bones in front of her she almost felt like she hadn't left for the teaching sabbatical.

Almost: that was the key word.

Nine months earlier she would not have had to lie in bed staring at the ceiling for a full half an hour before being able to drag herself out of her apartment. Nine months earlier she would have looked forward to going to work and entering her office. She would have waited eagerly for fieldwork—although she never showed it—instead of dreading the possibility.

Nine months earlier she had a reason to get out of bed, even if she wouldn't admit that reason to herself except when entirely intoxicated or in that place between waking awareness and sleep.

Now, there was no reason.

"Sweetie!"

Brennan looked up from the papers on her desk that she had been staring blankly at for—she glanced quickly at the clock on the wall—fifteen minutes. Angela stood in her doorway, a wary smile on her face. Brennan forced a smile onto her own lips and hoped that it looked less fake than it felt. It must have, since Angela's smile became more relaxed. Good.

"Good morning, Sweetie," Angela said as she moved further into the office. She was clutching a file in her hands and she slid it gently onto the edge of the desk. "We've got results on the John Doe that was brought in the other day. Thought that you might want to see them."

Brennan nodded appreciatively. On Friday, after being back at work for only five days, a John Doe had been found in a quarry that was being excavated. With the initial viewing of the body, Brennan had deduced that he'd been in his mid thirties at the time of death; he'd died of strangulation; and he'd been dead for going on six months. Leonard Terry, the newest FBI liaison for the Jeffersonian—Brennan did not like to think about that too much—had suggested that the killing and the way that the body was found, hung up in the deep recesses of a crevice with a stripe of red paint over his head, was a perfect mach to an organized gang leader named George Mendoza. He'd insisted that, if that were true, then the bones would contain traces of slow poison.

Brennan flipped the folder opened and scanned the page for her answer.

There it was.

And, on the opposite page, there was a wonderfully-rendered sketch of a frowning man. "Is this him?" she asked Angela without looking up.

"Yes," Angela confirmed. "I ran him through the database, figuring in all of his known stats, and I didn't get any hits. I even checked CODIS. We came up with zilch."

"So we don't have any leads except for the traces of poison in his bones." It was not a question. Brennan closed the folder and sighed heavily, rubbing her temples firmly, trying to fight of the headache that was already threatening to surface.

" Tempe, did you not get any sleep weekend? You look like hell." Angela perched on the edge of the desk to face her friend. Her face was a mask of concern and the comfort that Brennan had been able to install in her earlier with that smile vanished. Brennan looked up and looked at the woman, a feeling of warmth washing over her.

Gently, she rested her hand on Angela's. "I'm fine, Ange. I've just been…It's hard being back in D.C., you know? I mean, it's great seeing you again but…" she sighed again, uncomfortable with conveying her emotions like this. "I don't know. But that's why I need to work. Do we have any leads at all that I might not know about? Something that has to do with any of George's past crime? We're going to need something to add to this. I don't have enough to work with. Is Zack working on tracking down the poison?"

Angela nodded. "Yeah, he's looking through the database for what could leave that in a man's bones but he can't find anything."

"But are there any other leads? This can't be the first time that you've worked a case on George Mendoza. Detective Terry seemed to know a lot about it."

"Well…" Angela hesitated and her eyes flicked nervously down to the floor. "There is somebody."

"Somebody." Brennan frowned. "As in alive? You know I don't do that, Angela. Can't Agent Terry—"

"If you ask me, Agent Terry is full of crap."

The two woman looked up at the door and Angela smiled happily at the man standing there. "Jack! I was just telling Tempe about our lead…you know, the guy that broke out of George Mendoza's gang."

Jack Hodgins's eyes widened slightly, much to Brennan's confusion, and he frowned. "Do you mean—"

"Michael Kenton. That's the guy. I was just trying to convince Brenn that she should go visit him; see if he will talk to her where he wouldn't talk to us." Angela's smile brightened a few watts.

Hodgins stared at her for a few seconds until he smiled in recognition and all confusion was erased. "Oh, yeah. He refuses to talk to any of us since we've been bothering him from the start. You know, he was the second in command when he went straight and pulled his way out of the gang. It did not make George very happy, as you can certainly understand. So Michael is under protective custody until all of his tips can be followed up on and we can catch George. His tips have allowed the FBI to arrest almost twenty guys already." He tapped the folder and opened it, pointing at the sketch of the John Doe. "He might know who this is."

Brennan stared at the picture as she chewed on her bottom lip. "But he's still alive. I don't have the kind of people skills that some of you have—"

"He won't talk to us, Dr. Brennan," Hodgins interjected. "You haven't come pounding on his door at all in the past month. He won't be nearly so wary around you. And he's even colder towards Agent Terry. Although, you'll need him to get access to the safe house."

"You don't have to talk with him much. Just ask if he knows the man and when he saw him last. If he doesn't know our John Doe, then…at least we'll know. This _is_ the only lead we have," Angela said softly. Brennan looked back and forth between the two, feeling ganged up on. She knew that in the months that she had been gone their relationship had progressed and deepened to something quite serious and that was a little daunting. Being around these two was very hard sometimes. It reminded her too much of the reason that she left in the first place.

"Fine," she said shortly, as much to agree as to stop herself from continuing that line of thinking. "I'll go. Do you have an address for me?"

Angela and Hodgins seemed to take in a deep breath of satisfaction at the same time. Angela pulled out a pink post-it note and scribbled a few lines down on it with a blue pen before handing it and the folder to her. "Here you go. Be careful out there, Sweetie. The roads are really crowded since summer vacation has started."

Brennan nodded and slipped her lab coat off of her shoulders. This was actually a relief, she thought to herself as she picked up the file and walked out of the room without another word. She'd wanted some sort of distraction and she'd gotten it. She would have to be careful not to tick the man off and thereby get shot—he was a former gang member, she noted, and would probably not hesitate to do something like that. But she was now able to focus entirely on wording her conversation with him and getting the information that she wanted. This was just the thing that she needed to get her mind off of other, more unpleasant topics. At least for now.

Sliding into her car, she glanced once more at the address and put her car in gear, already rehearsing the way that she would approach him.

Angela still sat perched on Brennan's desk as the scientist left. She stared blankly at the wall in front of her, trying not to cry at what she had just done. She started when a pair of big hands rested on her hips. Realizing that it was just Hodgins, she leaned back into his chest and inhaled deeply. "Did I do the right thing?" she whispered.

Hodgins buried his nose into her hair and sighed. "I don't know," he deadpanned. "But don't you think that she needs this; that they both need this?"

Angela nodded. "She hasn't once asked about him since she got home two weeks ago. She just…took it all in stride."

"Then I think that we did the right thing," Hodgins said softly as he pulled her in closer and pressed his lips to her temple. "Maybe things will change after she gets some sense whammed into her."

"Yeah, maybe," Angela agreed again. "Maybe this will help her to heal. Michael has…has so much information that she needs. She needs closure, Jack. And maybe Michael will be willing to give it to her. Then, maybe, she'll be able to heal."

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**Once again, sorry for the length.**

**THANKS FOR READING!!! I promise that the next installment is coming soon enough. I just want to be comfortable in where I am going with all of this. But I want to give a bit shout-out to Ava Leigh! You're AWESOME, chica! You're the best beta a girl could ask for!**

**DeamonFruba**


	3. Chapter 2: Michael Kenton

**So here we go. Chapter Two. (or three, if you count the prologue. whatever.) I'm not really going to apologize to anybody except for Ava for the delay. It took a lot of willpower for me to start writing again. It still hurts a little bit. So this and the rest of what I write is dedicated to:**

**Christopher Steven Marcum. Rest in peace, Buddy. My lock and key are all yours and I'm going to miss hearing about the "good book." I hope that you are finally happy now. We're all going to miss you. Lunch will never have the same pandamonium without you. Love you forever.**

**Rating: T for mild language  
Disclaimer: clones on a loan.  
Thanks to: Avaleighfitzgerald. Thanks for being so understanding.**

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_Maybe this will help her heal. She needs closure. And maybe Michael will be willing to give it to her._ Angela's hopes seemed to echo around in Special Agent Leonard Terry's head. He'd heard the exchange when he when he walked into Dr. Brennan's office and had immediately been on-guard. Angela had filled him in on what she and Jack Hodgins had convinced the good doctor to do and he'd been both wary and interested in the outcome. Since he was assigned to work with the "Squint Squad", as it was not-so-affectionately called, nine months ago, the lab rat Zack Addy had constantly told him stories about her. He was filled in about her relationship—platonic, to Angela Montenegro's chagrin—with his predecessor and how it was so wrought with sexual tension that it was difficult to be in the same room with them when they were arguing.

He'd been told so many stories, in fact, that when it was finally time that he meet her, he was both excited and terrified. How would she react, he wondered, when she found that her past partner was gone? Angela said that she left without any knowledge of what Agent Booth had gone and done, and Terry guessed that it would be a nasty shock for her when she was introduced to him. But, on that first day that she returned from her teaching sabbatical a week ago, she had been nothing but courteous and had seemed to take her new partner in stride. She even had conversations with him and was willing to tell him about some of her excursions in Africa and in South America. She'd refused to say anything about California, however, and he'd made a point not to tread on the subject so as to keep the friendly relationship intact.

All in all, he'd figured that she was doing amazingly well at getting back into the flow of things. He'd said as much to Angela after work the Friday before and she'd given him this look that clearly stated how ignorant she thought he was. She'd explained as if she were talking to a child about how she hadn't even inquired about Agent Booth's whereabouts. When I suggested that this might be a good thing; that maybe she got over him, her look of indignation became more prominent. Then she went on to explain how silent she was; how she'd spontaneously drift away from a conversation and stare out into oblivion. This, she'd stated simply, was not normal Temperance Brennan behavior.

In fact, if Terry thought back on it, he'd often overheard Jack and Angela talking about sending Brennan over to meet Michael but neither could seem to think of a subtle way of doing it.

_Well,_ he thought as he glanced over at Brennan who was staring blankly out of the car window, _they've got her going._

But Terry had to wonder if this was the best way of going about it. He had taken a bit of psychology when he was in college and, although Dr. Brennan clearly hated the art, according to Angela, he couldn't help turning what he had learned on his new partner. She was fragile, he realized. She was more fragile than she let on and anything overtly threatening to the way that she was carrying on her life at the moment could send her in a steep, downward spiral. Her smiles were too stiff; her laughs too quick to come. Everything about her shouted tension, although he wasn't yet positive that it had to do with her ex-partner, no matter what Angela insisted. The fact still remained that she refused to talk about anything related to her stay in California. Something bad had happened there; something that added onto the agony of losing her partner as soon as she returned home.

Yes. Agent Terry had to wonder if this was the best way to break down those walls of ice that he could now see as clearly as he could see his own reflection in the review mirror. She was so frail, no matter how hard she tried to keep up appearances.

_Although,_ he thought as he shot another quick glance at her pale face, _I wonder if anybody else sees it. I doubt that Dr. Saroyan sees it. She's generally pretty blocked off._

Terry had always had a talent for reading people's moods and character. His father had been a psychologist and his mother was a revered criminologist in New York. They'd taught him from an early age about how one could read somebody by their eyes, coupled with other things. The training had come in handy in many respects but especially in his relationships with other people.

"Have you met Michael Kenton?"

Terry shifted his eyes in surprise from the road to his partner. She wasn't looking at him but was instead gazing at the passing houses. He nodded and looked back at the road in front of him. "I've met him a few times. Why do you ask?"

"Angela seems to think that he knows something about this dead man," she said with a shrug. Terry decided not to try and decipher the full extent of her meaning. She would tell him if she wanted to. "Who is he, exactly?"

Terry heaved a sigh and flexed his hands on the steering wheel as he turned a corner. "Well, he worked for the Bureau and about a year ago—I'm not exactly sure how long ago, really—Mr. Kenton was working on a case in South Carolina. Somehow George Mendoza met him and was greatly intrigued by Kenton. Not knowing that Kenton was a government official, he sent his men out in search of the elusive man. One of the undercover agents got word if George's interest and alerted his superiors and they sent for Kenton, sensing their chance to get close to George in a minimum amount of time with a minimum amount of effort. And about three weeks ago he returned to D.C. and was placed in protective custody while the Bureau topples the guy's kingdom. From what I've heard, thirty guys have gone down in the past two weeks and sixty went down that first week Kenton was back in town. So Kenton basically succeeded in imploding the worst organized gang boss's kingdom in half as many months as it took the Bureau in years."

Brennan looked away from the window with slightly widened eyes. "How did he get up so fast? Doesn't it take years to move from position to position in those types of things?"

Terry was impressed: he could tell that her interest was genuinely piqued. He wondered vaguely if her interest in the intricacies of the mob was something to worry about when combined with her genius. "Well, luckily, with the combination of our own men placed strategically throughout the mob and George's own, unwavering interest, it wasn't overly difficult. Although I shudder to think of what he probably had to go through to get as far as he did. Other people could only do so much to help him, you know."

Brennan nodded and looked back out her window. Then she turned back to him when she noticed that they had stopped driving. He nodded at the street in front of them and pointed out a small green house with a well-kempt yard. There was a brown Ford directly in front and a silver Camry a few feet away from that. Terry knew that there were men positioned in not only those cars but in the houses on either side. He'd failed to mention to the good doctor that there had already been three attempts on Michael Kenton's life and the man had been relocated twice that amount of times. George's goons were definitely _not_ happy about the new turn of events.

Terry tapped the file in Brennan's hands. "Let's go," he said as he switched off the car engine and slipped quickly out of the sedan. He walked briskly down the sidewalk and turned onto the sidewalk that led up to a blue house next to the green one. He waited a moment for Brennan to catch up and, when she was standing behind him, he rang the doorbell and knocked three times. The door opened instantly and a man dressed in a suit and tie poked his head out.

The man grinned past a cigarette that hung from his lip. "What can I do you for, Agent Terry?" he asked as he ran a beefy hand through his black hair. Terry smiled.

"Agent Quinton, this is Dr. Temperance Brennan from the Jeffersonian. She has something to ask Mr. Kenton." He gestured her forward and gestured for her to show the man the file. She did so, however reluctantly, and then stepped backward as the man spoke into a radio clip on his shoulder.

"Alpha One, we have a visitor for the Bird. It's another one of them scientists. Over."

Another man's voice squawked a response over the radio waves. "Beta Three, this is Alpha One. The Bird doesn't want to see any more of them Squints. Over."

Agent Quinton rolled his eyes and spoke back to the man on the other end. "Well you can tell the Bird that he's been sitting in his roost for too damn long. Tell him that this one is pretty and she'll be over in a minute. Over."

"Beta Three, don't get smart with me. I'll tell the bird but he won't like it. Over."

Nodding in satisfaction, Agent Quinton held out his hand to Brennan. "Would you give me your gun, please?"

Brennan stared at him for a moment as if considering her options and then reached down and unclipped the small gun from the holster on her belt. When she handed it over to Agent Quinton, he passed it on to Terry and then looked back over at her. "Is this your first time talking to Kenton?"

Brennan nodded a 'yes.'

"Then there are a few things I need to go over with you. This man was undercover for a little over eight months in one of the nastiest, largest organized crime gangs in the country. When we got him out of there he almost literally had his head on the chopping block with the ax poised to fall down. His mental state is not much to speak of right now and, in the past few weeks, he hasn't reacted well to having any of you Squints come and visit him. There was a woman here about four days ago and they got into an argument. It got physical and there was some damage done so you'll definitely want to be careful when you approach him. We've got the place bugged so we'll be able to detect if he tries to hurt you—and vice-versa. Do not let him lock the door. Leave immediately if he starts getting angry. And only ask what you came to ask him. We generally wouldn't be so concerned but his information has brought a lot of men down, especially in this last week, and he is especially tense. And do not ask him anything about his ordeal. He gets particularly touchy when it comes to that subject. Agent Jack Newman will let you into the house but he will leave as soon as you are inside. Are we clear?"

Brennan looked over at Agent Terry nervously and he saw the flash of confusion in her eyes. Once again, he wondered if this was a good idea. But when she nodded her agreement and said a soft 'yes' he sighed in resignation and moved back into the kitchen of the house where a group of agents were playing Euchre. He kept his eyes on the cards as he listened to the door open and close. When she was gone, he pulled out his cell phone and pressed speed dial. When the ringing stopped and a woman's voice greeted him, he spoke softly. "She's gone to see him, Angela. And I hope to hell that you're right. Because if you're not we're all going there."

"I know, Terry," Angela agreed on the other end, her voice equally as soft. "But hell is better than this for the both of them, isn't it?"

"I hope so, Angela." Terry looked over at the closed door. "I really do."

…**I LOVE AGENT TERRY…I LOVE MICHAEL KENTON…I LOVE COOKIES…**

As Brennan walked across the brown-green lawn to the house next door where Agent Quinton had indicated that Michael Kenton lived, she quickly reviewed her plan of action. She would ask only the basics and, if he knew anything, then she could come back for the more in-depth questions later when she'd had a chance to rehearse. It would be that simple, she decided. Go in, ask if he knew the man, if he did then ask him a few preliminary questions before leaving, and if he didn't then she would get to leave immediately. Easy. Simple. To the point. And yet it was still terrifying.

Today was her first real day back on the field and her first day having to actually deal with a possible suspect/witness. And to top off the sundae of crap was the nice, rotten cherry of a fact that she was alone: something that she had never had to face in this line of work.

All things considered, though, she was doing well. She wasn't shaking in anxiety and she wasn't hyperventilating. She had everything planned out neatly and even had a couple of escape policies if anything went horrendously wrong.

So, as she knocked on the small brown house's front door, she was sufficiently confident. At least, she wasn't about to keel over from anything but the ridiculous heat. It might not be extreme enough to cook an egg but she knew for certain that if you stuck a stick of butter on the asphalt…

The door opened, allowing her to feel a gush of fresh, cool air. It was enough to allay a few more of her anxieties as she peered into the dim house. A man dressed to the eights—or tens or whatever—was standing between the doorstop and the edge of the wood door, holding his badge up for her to see.

"My name is Dr. Temperance Brennan," she said, introducing herself. "I'm with the Jeffersonian Institute—"

"I know who you are," the agent said with a smile as he stuffed his badge back into his jacket pocket. "I've been reading your books actually. Just finished the first one and I have the second in my car. And my name is Agent Jack Newman, by the way. What do you need to talk to Kenton about?"

Brennan lifted the file and showed the outside to him. "I need him to identify a body we recently found in the quarries. My coworkers, who have been following his case for much longer than I have, said that he was the best lead due to the position and conditions that the body was found under." She lowered the file back to her side and mentally smiled at the way that she was so easily flowing with this whole situation. Her practice in California had definitely worked to smooth her abilities out. There was definitely something to be said about those lectures that she'd been so reluctant to give.

Newman gave her a dubious look and, when she raised an eyebrow questioningly, he shrugged. "Has anybody told you about how hard it is to get him to speak to people like you? He seems to have a problem with people from your institute. He's either sent them away before they could get inside, yelled at them until they ran away, or used physical violence to get them out where words couldn't work. He's got a nasty temper on his shoulders and it can be dangerous."

Brennan nodded to show that she understood. "I was told briefly about that. But I don't think that he will be able to get too much of an upper hand. I'm trained in the martial arts and—"

"But are you trained in gang fighting?" Newman interrupted. "It's not fair and quite brutal. I have no doubt that you can usually protect yourself but this guy—"

"Agent Newman," Brennan returned the favor, interrupting him as well. "I've fought soldiers in Cuba, in China, and many people here in the US, hyped up on steroids and otherwise. I think that I can take care of myself for a little while. I just want him to look at the picture and tell me if he new the man. I won't piss him off. And I can handle it if I do."

Newman stared at her blankly for a few seconds before nodding silently and stepping out of the cool house and into the heat. He motioned for her to go inside. "He's in the back somewhere, probably reading one of his books. Just remember what I said and if something happens that pisses him off, get out. Don't think. Just turn around and walk out of there. Okay?" Brennan nodded her agreement and thanks and stepped inside, sighing as the heat of the day was instantly banished from her skin. The door closed behind her with a definite _click_ and she was left alone in the dark room.

Brennan took the opportunity to look around as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. There was a shabby couch on the opposite side of the room and next to it was an end table with a small pile of books. There was also a TV in one corner of the room and a chair in which a ridiculously large tabby cat was curled comfortably, purring audibly. She was no expert but it looked more than slightly overweight. In fact, he was practically pooling off of the seat cushions.

When her eyes were completely adjusted to the dim area around her, she decided that she had waited long enough. "Hello?" she called out into the dark. "Mr. Kenton, are you here?" What a stupid question, she reflected. Of course he was here: he wasn't allowed to leave the house, for obvious reasons. But she didn't receive an answer so she walked cautiously through the living room and past the small kitchen with the card table and folding chair to a back hallway. There was a doorway open at the end and a quick glance from where she stood revealed it to be a bathroom. There were two closed doors to her left and she silently decided not to open them, just in case. But to her right there was a door slightly ajar. And, what was more, a stream of light was filtering out through the crack between the door and the doorjamb. This was obviously her best bet.

So, balancing the file in her left hand, she knocked softly on the doorframe as her heart rate began to steadily speed up in anxiety. "Mr. Kenton?" she asked softly through the crack in the door. "Are you there, Mr. Kenton?"

"_Meow!"_

Brennan jumped as the extremely large—and now that she really saw him walking, she realized that he looked like a fatter version of Garfield—cat weaved through her legs and pushed its way through the door. It opened wider, accommodating the cat's large proportions, and Brennan was able to peer inside.

It was a bedroom with nothing inside but a bed, a television set that was on, turned to a basketball game, a large floor fan that was making a steady _whirring_ noise…and a man.

There was a man with black/brown hair—she couldn't tell in the flickering light that the TV in the corner provided—and finely toned muscles. His face was pressed in the pillows and his left leg and arm were sticking out of the sheet that covered the rest of him. He was only wearing a pair of boxers so she was able to clearly see his skin.

And the tattoo on his wrist.

The very, very, _very_ familiar tattoo.

She needed to turn away now. She knew this and felt herself nearly screaming it in her head. But her body seemed to have other plans and, as she trudged slowly to the head of the bed as if walking through mud, she couldn't seem to get herself to turn away. And all the while her eyes were shifting up and down the man's body categorizing every scar that marred the tan skin. Finally, though, when her legs stopped moving, she was unable to form a coherent thought as she stared down at the man's sleeping face.

She saw the brown hair that she remembered as being so soft. And there was the same delectable mouth, curved slightly downward in sleep, a stark contrast to the content smile that she remembered.

She knew this man. She knew the heat of his skin on hers. She knew the taste of his tongue in her mouth and the sound of his labored breath in her ear.

"Booth."

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**I have got to say: I think that this is just slightly cliche. But whatever. The next installation is soon.**

Deamon 


	4. Chapter 3: Bad Habits

**So I know that I have been negligent. I am sorry but I've got a lot of problems going on right now. Sorry, peoples. **

**Anyway, this is chapter Three. As a quick review ('cause I personally hate having to go back and reread), Brennan left DC and then came back nine months later to find Booth had been replaced by Agent Terry and Booth was in George Mendoza's gang (please excuse the non-creative name right there. Don't know what I was thinking) under the name Michael Kenton (and no: that has nothing to do with the Kenton from the first season. Origionally the last name was going to be Stires as a way to mock Brennan with her ex-lovers name but for some reason I didn't use the name by the chapter's post.) At the end of chapter two - or three, if you include the prologue - Brennan just realized that Booth was Michael. **

**Oh. For those of you who have been bothering me about Andrew: you learn a little bit about him here but I love Andrew too much to disrespect him by just tossing him in there. He represents too much for me.**

**Here you go. Chapter Three - Bad Habits**

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**Chapter Three: Bad Habits**

Brennan stared at the wine glass in her hands and tipped it slightly to watch the red liquid make patterns on the crystal. Closing her eyes, she took another long sip until the glass was empty. Then she reached over to the coffee table and grabbed the bottle, tipping it slightly to pour more of the wine into her glass. She paused before the liquid could substantially fill the glass, however, and set the glass down before bringing the bottle to her lips and taking a good, long swig.

It was just another one of those things that she had picked up in the past nine months. That long ago she would have blatantly refused to drink from the bottle but now she didn't hesitate.

She smiled to herself as she lowered the bottle, remembering the first time that she had ever drunk from a wine bottle. Tears had been coursing down her face and Andrew…Andrew had just been sitting across the table, holding her hand in that reassuring way that he'd always had. It had been two weeks after she'd left D.C. and she'd just returned from the hospital. The papers were sitting spread out in front of her, each confirming the reason that she had left. The truth was overwhelming and undeniable. And she'd needed an out.

_"You know it doesn't work, right?"_ Andrew had said. She did now what she had did then, shrugging the comment off and tipping the bottle back again so she could suck down more of the wine.

_"It tastes good,"_ she'd reasoned. _"And it gives me a temporary out." _

_"You don't need temporary, babe. You don't—_we_ don't need an out. We need to face this thing." _

_"Is that why you called me?"_ She'd spoken sharply in response to his concern; something that made her cringe now. _"Did you call me so we could have a pity party together? This isn't something that can't be ignored. It's not something that we can cry over before fighting it and defeating it. It's here and it's not going to leave us."_ She'd set the bottle down on the table and picked up the sheet of paper that held the diagnosis. _"This is not something that is ever going to go away. There's nothing we can do to stop it. So what the hell do you expect me to do?"_

His face. She could still remember the look on his face as he stared up at her from the chair. She was standing above him, brandishing the thick paper as if it were a sword. She'd been furious. But he'd smiled at her in that sad, sweet way of his and shook his head. He'd cried then. He began to sob and she sat back down in defeat, wrapping her arms around his slim frame and held him close until his sobs had turned to hacking coughs. When they'd subsided, though, he rested his head on her breast and sighed deeply.

_"Just take care of me,"_ he'd whispered into her shirt. _"Just be with me. I need you, Temperance. Stay with me."_

And she had. She stayed through it all, watching him through the months and feeling part of herself being eaten away every morning as she looked up from the breakfast table. She'd taught his classes for him at the University. They'd spent the days and evenings together playing board games and going to see more movies than she had ever seen in her lifetime. At night they would make dinner and talk and talk; pretending that there was no one else in the world. She'd built up a wall around their world and guarded it viciously. She'd stayed with him to the end.

And during their time together she'd changed. Her fear of losing people had increased tenfold and her ability to retreat within herself had become more and more useful. She found now that when she had a conversation for someone she couldn't help but compare their speech to Andrew's. They all seemed incompetent when held up to the luster of her days and nights with him. In fact, she had been left wanting so much during normal encounters that she'd decided even before she left for D.C. that no one could compare. So she'd remained cut off from the rest of the world and her old family.

She was alone. She had completely and effectively alienated herself. It was not a happy existence but it was one that she had become comfortable with in the past month or so since Andrew left her. But now…now she had to think on the reappearance of the one person that she had tried the hardest to block out from her life. And then when she was through with that she had to try to comprehend the fact that he was in a witness protection program while he gave out information about the inner workings of one of the largest organized-crime gangs in the country.

Damn.

Brennan leaned back and pressed the crown of her head against the blanket that was slung over the couch. What was she supposed to do now? Where did she go from here? How the hell was she supposed to approach him? Did she just knock on his door and say, "Hey, sorry I walked out on you nine months ago. How have you been doing, besides the whole gang thing?" Or did she completely ignore the fact that she'd seen him?

No. That was no good. Angela had known what would happen. She'd seen Booth in that house. She'd even had an altercation with him. (That was yet another thing that confused her but she knew that dwelling on it would produce nothing so she mentally filed it away for inspection later.) It was inevitable that Angela would mention it. Of course, Brennan knew, Angela had sent her to the house with as little information as possible. Angela had been nearly shaking with anticipation over Brennan's mental health in the past two weeks and the fact that Brennan completely blocked her out was not something that went unnoticed. She'd questioned her about Andrew, about California, about the supposed sabbatical, and even about what she, Brennan, had said to Booth before she'd left. The first and the last subjects were, by far, the tenderest to Brennan and she had obstinately refused to answer any questions in that direction.

So what? What was she supposed to do?

Maybe she could call off work…but to what end? All it would achieve would be to delay the imminent emotional pain for another day and it was quite likely that it would then be more painful than absolutely necessary.

No. There was only one thing that she could do.

She had to go to work and face the damned problem head-on.

Without bringing a bottle of vodka to work.

Brennan cringed as she took another swig from the wine bottle. She'd become a coward. And, in this drunken-stupor that somehow made her more self-analytical, she realized that she didn't like being a coward.

_"Movie lions, chickens, rats, spiders and ostriches, Temperance. These are all animals that scuttle away when the going gets tough. But what we have to do is be that little midget with the hairy feet and jump right into the action. We can't even take the time to check how deep the pool is."_

Brennan smiled to herself as she raised the bottle in a toast. "Thanks, Andrew," she whispered as the bottle reached her lips. Tipping her head back, she closed her eyes and swallowed the last drops of wine.

**…REST I PEACE, CHRIS MARCUM… **

Brennan woke to the sounds of a phone ringing.

No. It wasn't ringing. It was screeching in her ears and through her hang-over-addled brain, causing a continuous jolt of searing pain to flow through not only her blood stream but her skin as well. Cautiously, she pulled a pillow over her eyes and reached out blindly for the phone, not willing to risk letting the treacherous rays of sun reach her retinas.

She quickly found the phone on the nightstand and pressed the TALK button, as much to answer the damn thing as to silence its murderous noise. Bringing it about an inch from her ear, she forced her thick tongue to unglue itself from the roof of her mouth and move well enough to form a series of slurred syllables.

"Brennan speaking."

" Tempe? Sweetie, where are you?" It was Angela. Brennan forced herself not to groan as she heard her friend's voice, thankfully quieter than it would have been since the phone was away from her ear.

"I'm at home," Brennan slurred again. There was a foul taste in her mouth, yet another testament to the vodka she had consumed _after_ the wine. It had been a bad night. "What time is it?"

"It's nine o' clock, Brenn. Are you okay? You sound terrible. You were in and out of work so fast yesterday that I didn't have the chance to ask you…"

Then Brennan remembered. Angela had known. Terry had known. Everyone had known that the proverbial lion had been in that house and they sent her in, anyway. _That_ was one of the contributing factors to why her head felt like it was splintering into millions of pieces, just like one of the many skulls that she had pieced together in her line of work. "I don't want to talk right now, Angela. Tell Cam that I'll be there in an hour. I just…" she paused and moved the pillow away from her face very gently and winced when a steam of light hit her eyes. "I just need to take a shower, okay?"

"Okay, Brenn…." Angela paused as if there was something more that she needed to say and Brennan waited, more to delay having to get out of bed than to hear what she had to say. In fact, she found herself filled with the overwhelming urge to scream and scream until she was hoarse and then crumple into a ball on her bed while sobbing her eyes dry. Damn the hangover that stopped her from speaking loud enough to pull any of that off…

"Brennan, I'm so sorry." Angela's voice cracked in the middle of the apology and Brennan knew that she was crying. She turned away from the phone as if that would block out the emotions that were enveloping her and her oldest friend but still the sound of Angela's watery voice filled her ears. "I should have told you, Sweetie. I should have warned you about what…who I was sending you to see. But I couldn't! You have to understand. If you'd known then you never would have gone."

Brennan clenched her teeth and pressed her face deep into the pillow. She just wanted to be alone. She didn't want to have to deal with Angela or the Jeffersonian or any Mendoza murders or Booth. She just wanted to go back to California to the cozy bed that she and Andrew had shared and burrow her way down deep where no one but the his memory would find her. But that was irrational. It could never happen. "Did you ever think that there might be a reason to any aversion that I might have to visiting him?"

"Well, _Brennan_," Angela sighed, obviously losing patience. Brennan shared her sentiments. "If you _do _have a reason I wouldn't be able to know, now, would I? You've never voiced any of those reasons to me! Hell, Brennan, you've barely _spoken_ to me since you got back to D.C.! You've been home for two weeks and I _still don't even know why you left!_"

Angela's voice had gone up an octave and her pitch was steadily rising. It was not something that Brennan ever remembered hearing from her old friend. And yet, it still didn't do anything to alleviate the fury that she felt for the day before. And now, with Angela's teary voice filling her ears, she forgot the pain of the hangover and sat up, threw the pillow to the floor, and put the phone to her ear.

"Maybe because I _can't_ talk about what happened! Maybe it's too goddamn painful to talk about! Have you ever thought about _that_, Angela? And maybe, just _maybe_, the last time I spoke to Booth we weren't on the best of terms. Maybe something happened that hurt nearly as much as what happened in California! And what if every time I tried to even think about either situation, it felt like it was happening all over again? What would you say if I told you _that_?"

" Tempe…" Angela's voice had gone down considerably and she was obviously shocked. Brennan closed her eyes and raised her left hand to massage her forehead. The cold metal on her ring finger reassured her as she pressed the back of her hand against her cheek and took a deep breath. She couldn't risk alienating Angela. She was the only friend that she had left. No matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't yell at her. And, however much she hated to admit it, she needed a living, breathing human being to keep her grounded.

"Listen, Ange," she said. Her voice was soft and hopefully apologetic. "I'm sorry I said those things, okay? I'm just…I've got a bad hangover. Just let me get cleaned up and dressed and I'll be at work in an hour. Just tell Cam I'm sorry." She hoped that Angela would take the hint and not press any further. There was silence on the other end for a few tension-filled seconds until Angela cleared her throat.

"Alright. I'll tell her. Or…I'll tell her that you're just a little sick. Try to hurry up, though. Terry wants to speak with you about the investigation."

"Fine. I'll be there as soon as I can. And Angela?"

"Yes, Sweetie?"

Brennan sighed. "I really am sorry that I yelled at you. You didn't deserve it."

"Yes I did, Brenn. I did. And I'm sorry that I did what I did."

"Yeah," Brennan nodded, even though Angela couldn't see her. "I am, too." And then she pushed the OFF button, cutting off any reply.

Brennan took in a shuddering breath and, with a little surprise, reached up to touch her face. The skin was somewhat sticky to the touch and when she moved it felt stiff as if she had cried, even in her sleep. She smiled ruefully as she mourned the lack of self-control that she had experienced the night before. She may have become a heavy drinker but generally she avoided the Vodka thanks to the monstrous headaches that always greeted her the next morning. Her eyes traveled to the silver that rested on the base of her left ring finger. She'd told herself that her decision to continue wearing it was in the hopes that she would see Andrew's face when she was about to do something stupid but…obviously that wasn't working. But even her sensible mind's usual reproach was quenched by the abhorrent pounding in her skull.

Sighing in resignation, she squeezed the pillow one last time with her hand and then moved slowly over to the edge of the bed, preparing herself for the inevitable pain that would greet her as she walked – or crawled, as it was likely to turn out – to the bathroom.

It was going to be another hellish day, she decided. But what else was new?

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**I know I'm an inconsistant writer - timing wise - but PLEASE R&R!!! Reviews feed my soul and said soul is sadly lacking lately. Remind me why I work so hard to push some stuff out!!! Thank you.**

**DF**


	5. Chapter 4: Confrontation

**I would like to apologize again but it's nothing you haven't heard before. This is the newest completed chapter of Bright Side. This is a crazy story to write and very difficult to do. It's draining enough when I don't have all the drama over here at the homestead. But chapter five is in the works and so is chapter six. Here's a forewarning, though: the next chapter will be a DEFINITE M rating. I even have to tone it down a bit so it doesn't go too over the top. When that one is released you can request a lighter chapter that doesn't have the scene in question within it. (Non-consensual sex. Or a gang rape. Whichever termonology you prefer.) Just don't expect it too soon. Ugh.**

**Anyway, here it is. Chapter four. Not the greatest but definitely longer than usual. I combined two just for you guys. **

**Disclaimer: Clones on a loan. You know the drill. Don't sue or my rats Dana and Rosaline will starve. Then I'll be angry. You don't want that. Just ask B.  
Rating: T for mild to medium language. Can't remember how bad it gets. Hehe.  
**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apologies out to Ava. Sorry I didn't send this to you, hun. It too much motivation to even get it up here on the internet. I had to get it done now or it never would. Love to you. And I'll send you summaries in a bit.**

**DF

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**

**Chapter Four:**

"So I scheduled another appointment over at the safe house with Mr. Kenton. They're expecting us in forty minutes."

Brennan looked wearily at Agent Terry and took another sip of her milkshake that she had splurged for on her way to work. "Can't we just meet him here?" She'd meant for the comment to sound like annoyance at having to leave the lab instead of a final plea. She knew that she would feel a hundred times more comfortable with her execution if it was in a place that was like a second home instead of a dark, dreary house in the middle of a subdivision. Why the hell did they keep him in a place like that, anyway? It was depressing….

Agent Terry shook his head and continued to keep his eyes trained on the wall just to the left of her face. He hadn't looked her in the eyes all morning. In fact, no one had.

_That just confirms that they all knew about it,_ she thought ruefully. Even Zack and Cam hadn't looked at her or spoken to her without stuttering. Oh well, she sighed. There was nothing to be done about that. She would just have to accept it.

"So when do we have to leave?" she sighed, resigned to her fate.

Terry cleared his throat and looked briefly at her face before looking away again. "Well, I think that we should leave now and beat any kind of lunch traffic."

Brennan nodded before standing up from the large leather chair and grabbing the file on the John Doe. "All I have to do is get him to ID the picture, right?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Good. Then we're getting out of there and I," she lifted her empty milkshake, "am getting a refill." They were her new addiction; something else that she had picked up on her "sabbatical" in California. Thankfully, this habit was much healthier than the near-perpetual drunkenness.

"Hey, Sweetie?"

Brennan looked up to her office door to lock eyes with Angela. It was the first she had seen of the woman all morning. She looked terrible and Brennan had the distinct impression that her friend hadn't slept at all the night before. "What's up, Ange?" she asked warily. She was feeling better than she had been at the time of Angela's call but she was still slightly shaken by both the call and the betrayal the day before.

"I was wondering if you wanted me to tag along. You know…for emotional support?" Angela seemed to fear saying it out loud and she seemed to be ready to either burst into tears or defend herself if Brennan decided to yell at her again.

The suggestion didn't send Brennan into an angry frenzy as Angela seemed to expect but, instead, started a swelled lump growing in the back of her throat. This was certainly not easy for Angela, she knew. And it would be a lot easier if she had a familiar face other than Terry's to be with her before and after she spoke to…Michael.

"I'd like that," she said softly. Angela's face brightened and she tucked her hair behind her ears.

"Great," Terry said with an embarrassed expression. "We should get going, now. The traffic is going to get nasty really quick and I don't know about you but I think that I'd rather face George Mendoza himself than face D.C. traffic. Especially in the summer time when all the tourists are in."

The women nodded in unison as Brennan stood and walked out of the room with arms linked and fingers entwined. As they walked out to the car garage together, Terry caught Hodgins's eyes and shrugged as they both looked at the women. Hodgins smiled slightly before turning back to the microscope with the smile remaining.

…**R.I.P. CHRIS MARCUM…**

Brennan stared at the door to the old house and listened to the opening and closing of another door just a few hundred feet away. She wanted to turn and run. She wanted to kick off her heeled boots and run as fast as she could away from what waited behind two inches of wood. But where would she go?

This was the inevitable moment. She could hear movements behind the door—the sound of a faucet in what she deemed to be the kitchen, the clinking of dishes, the sound of a cat meowing—and they were all testaments to what she was about to walk into.

She was about to walk head-on into her nightmares.

And if she kept thinking about it she was going to do what the blood in her veins screamed for her to do.

She was going to go back to California. And that was something that she had sworn to herself that she would never do.

So, with her mind screaming right along with her body for her to turn around, she moved her shaking hand to the doorknob and turned it. The metal latch moved and the door swung open.

She was shaking all over as she took a few steps inside and shut the door behind her. The Garfield-like cat trotted into the living room from what was definitely the kitchen—and the source of the noises—and appraised her with large eyes before turning back around with its tail raised and walking into the kitchen where it meowed loudly.

"Dammit, Leech, I'm not going to feed you again." Something in Brennan's torso lurched and she felt like throwing the three milkshakes that she had consumed up and out of her system. His voice was the same and yet…different. "If you really want to eat," he continued, seemingly unaware of her presence, "then go get some of the rats that I swear are running around here. Go on. Go fetch." Brennan heard a splash of water and a yowl of disapproval before a sopping-wet feline trotted out of the kitchen once again. He eyed her with disdain as if saying _Stupid sonofabitch_ before turning and moving in the direction of the bedroom.

Then the faucet turned off and, without more than a scant two or three seconds of warning footsteps, Brennan found herself face-to-face with _him_.

Suddenly, Brennan knew what people meant when they talked about a deer in headlights because, as she locked eyes with Booth, she felt the terror that a deer must feel with the knowledge that some large being as hurtling towards her at an unstoppable rate. In fact, her reaction was fitting perfectly with the realization that she had recently made about being a walking corkboard covered with the most-used clichés, ones that even she knew. But that didn't matter.

Right now, all that mattered was that she was staring into the brown eyes of the man that she had once loved…and had left for another.

How does one react in a situation like that? She had contemplated this question the entire car ride with Angel sitting huddled up beside her in the back seat. Does one burst into tears? Do they fling themselves at each other, each proclaiming how much they missed one another? Should the meeting be cordial, like two old friends meeting each other once again at a high school reunion? Or should it be a cold meeting, one filled with silences that spoke of betrayals and heartaches and confessions? What should be said? What should she do? There was nothing that she could find that seemed acceptable so she did the first thing that popped into her head. She thrust out her hand that held the file containing the picture of John Doe and she spoke quickly.

"There's a picture in here that….that Angela drew. We were wondering if you could take a look at him and identify him." She kept her eyes lowered and waited for the file to be taken from her fingers. When it was not, she looked up cautiously and peeked at him. He was standing there, looking at her with an astonished expression on his face. She also noticed at there was a long scar from his left temple to his chin where it doubled back briefly to skim along his jaw. It looked like a knife wound.

Catching her eyes for a moment before flicking them swiftly back to the folder, Booth pursed his lips into a thin line. Then he reached out and took the file from her. Their fingers came nowhere close to touching, she noted. Something that helped mark the passage of time between their last meeting.

Booth didn't even flip the folder open as he spoke. "I hear you came by yesterday."

"You were asleep," Brennan answered softly. She moved her head slightly so that her hair fell to shield her face: an old trick that she hadn't used in a long time.

"Mmh," Booth made the sound in the back of his throat. "And you didn't bother to wake me?"

Brennan chuckled airily as she turned her head away from him to scan the nondescript white wall. "I wouldn't have come here," she said softly, "if you hadn't made it so difficult for Terry to visit."

"Terry." Booth said the name as if he was rolling it around in his mouth. Brennan caught the sound of disdain in his tone. She heard the sound of his feet and she looked back to where he had been standing just in time to catch his form slipping back into the kitchen. Quickly, she followed. When she was in the room, she immediately located the file on the tabletop. Booth himself was positioned at the sink where a pile of dirty dishes sat.

"Booth—" she began, hoping that she wouldn't have to beg for him to look at the picture but before she could go any further, he turned away from the sink and looked her straight in the eye.

"When did you get back?" It was a simple question; one that should have been easy to answer but there was something in his tone. Something that reminded her of how he was long ago and they were still friends and partners. He had always been like her: put up a rough exterior and maybe you'll get away unscathed. But she could still see beyond that shell that he put up and heard the shadow of pain in his voice. And this fact sent a stabbing pain through her chest and her heart. She was the cause of some of that pain. She knew it and she hated herself for it.

Brennan cleared her throat, swallowing the lump that had formed. "Two weeks ago," she said. Her voice was raspy against her lips, chafing them as they passed.

Booth nodded. Then part of his defenses slipped and his gaze hardened to a cold ice. "Did California not meet your expectations?"

A sob almost escaped Brennan's lips as she understood the implication of his words. "Booth—"

"Oh, shut up," he muttered as he strode closer until he was standing mere inches from her. He seemed to tower above her, even though he wasn't much taller. Brennan shivered as she stared at the hard lines of his face. She had seen him angry before but she had never been afraid, at least not for herself. But now she was. "Just," Booth took a breath, "shut the _hell_ up!"

Brennan flinched back and took in a sharp breath but he didn't relent and reached out, grabbing her wrist with his hand.

"Do you have any _damn_ idea how hard my life has been lately; how many things I've gone through? No. You were too damn busy going off to screw around with some bastard and now…and now you just _show up, _expecting me to act civil to me and somehow expecting me to do the same?! Yeah, _right_, Bones!"

That's when the dam broke down. Brennan tore her arm away from his grasp and stormed back up to face him, the tears streaming down her face. "You _arrogant _son of a _BITCH!_" she yelled in his face. He took a step back, obviously shocked by her outburst but it didn't soften him. If anything, his face only hardened. "You aren't the only damn person in this world. You aren't the only one that's gone through hell. Don't you _dare_ talk about Andrew that way! Don't you _DARE._" She took in another breath before closing her eyes. She was suddenly very light-headed. Her breath was coming in short, sharp bursts and she realized frantically that she was hyperventilating. "Don't," she panted, "ever talk about him like you knew him." She paused for a moment to calm herself down before continuing. "I don't expect you to talk to me much. I just—I just want you to look at Angela's drawing and tell me who it is." She swallowed hard and, now that she was breathing at a somewhat-normal rate, she tried to stop the tears from flowing. It proved a futile effort, however, so she turned her face away and thrust the file into his chest.

"Please," she said softly, almost pleadingly. "If you don't want to talk to me…just look at the file." She choked back a sob. When had she gotten so emotional? She couldn't remember the last time she cried in front of anybody other than Andrew. Then again, she'd always had a hard time hiding her feelings around him. But it wasn't like he cared anymore. No. He hated her. And she couldn't thrust the blame for that on anybody but herself. Even then, though, she was slightly glad that she had made it that way. It sure as hell made things a lot easier.

At least, that's what she had to keep telling herself to keep from drowning.

…**Booth and Brennan…**

Bones was crying.

Damn it, why did he even care?

Why did each tear falling down that angelic face tear at his heart?

He hated her.

So why the hell couldn't he force himself to take the file and turn away?

"Take it," she pleaded. Her voice sounded so lost…so broken. "Take it so I can leave you alone."

But did he want her to leave him alone? He didn't think so, even though he had every reason to.

The truth was that he still loved her. The painful, God's Honest Truth was that he still woke up every morning thinking about her face; her voice; the way that she made him feel safe.

Every morning, though, he still pulled out that letter that she'd written him nine months ago at his apartment. And then the pain and the fury came back with just the same momentum as it had that morning.

By now he could quote it word for word.

He could recite every scalding word telling him how what had happened was just a way to satisfy biological urges. He saw every written phrase that described the man that she had met. He heard every sentence that told him that she was leaving him for this other man. Ever word. It was all etched into his memory and every night as he went to bed he could hear the letter as if she had read it to him instead of written it.

Booth remembered the first couple weeks after and how he had tried to convince himself that it was just a nasty joke that she was playing. It was so unlike her to go off to live with any guy—let alone a near stranger—but as time went by, he found himself growing to accept the letter as a fact and a truth. Soon he'd grown to hate her.

But she'd stayed with him. Every woman that he'd been with since that night—regardless of the situation—he had seen her and felt her body. When he was cruel to them, he imagined it being her and he was punishing her for what she'd done. When he was pretending to be genuine and touched her gently, he'd found himself pretending that she had come to him to say that it had all been a lie and that she really did love him.

He'd dreamed about her, too. Every night that he didn't have a nightmare, there she was. And, even if he did find himself having unspeakably horrible dreams, she often showed up to save him.

But here she was. She was standing in his kitchen—or at least, his temporary kitchen—pleading with him and he had the perfect chance to take everything out on her. And he wanted to. God knew that he wanted to grab her by the neck, slam her against the wall and have his way with her, whether or not she was a willing participant. But that was the part of him that was still Michael Kenton; the part that was still in the gang, waking up every moment in fear that he would be caught and tortured.

Still…the other part of him—the Seeley Booth part that had somehow survived—was split in his decision. He wanted to scream at her and sob in her arms; letting her comfort him, even if just for the moment. He wanted to touch her hair and her lips and her milky stomach again. He wanted to make her suffer emotionally the way that he had and yet he wanted to forgive her and he wanted her to forgive him. Above all, he wanted forgiveness.

"Bones—" he whispered softly, allowing his voice to sound soothing as he slowly moved his hand to her wrist. She gasped and flinched back, moving away from him. He closed his eyes in frustration and sadness and the moment in which he had been vulnerable was gone and Michael Kenton was back at the wheel. He snatched the file from her grasp and flipped it open to the drawing.

Aw, great.

Booth stared in shocked horror down at the picture in his hands for a long minute.

_That is just damn great, isn't it?_ He thought to himself as he looked down at Ian McClain. _Of course he's going to show up at the worst damned time possible. Isn't that always the way?_

Brennan cleared his throat and he looked up at her with annoyance. She was regaining her composure: there wasn't a trace of tears on her face, although her eyes were still puffy.

"Do you know him?" she asked softly.

Booth nodded and thrust the file back at her. "Yeah, I knew him. His name was Ian McClain—or Dog for those that knew him. Died about six or seven months ago. Did they just find him?"

Brennan nodded. "Down at the old—"

"Old quarry. I know. Hey, this case is already wrapped up. Give the information to Agent Newman and he'll clear it up." He turned away from her and stepped back to stand in front of the sink so that he could stare at the wall and away from her.

"What?" Brennan sounded annoyed. "How do you know—"

"Because I killed the bastard, that's how." Booth turned his head and glared at her over his shoulder just in time to watcher her do a double take at this news. "I began the original poisoning and when the time came, I strangled him with my bare hands and hid his body. The FBI already knows about it so…I guess I can see why you didn't know, though." He turned back to the wall. "They probably don't have that in the system yet to keep the information contained." He sighed. "Is that all you wanted? I have things I have to do."

She was unable to budge. Only her mouth, fighting hard against the shock, could move. "What…" she began before the tumble of thoughts punched, kicked, scratched and bit their way to be first to make themselves known. She cleared her throat and began again. "What are you talking about?" Damn. That came out as almost a squeak.

"I'm saying," Booth turned around again to point at the file, "that six months and twenty days ago, I met Ian McClain at the quarry to discuss a matter of…business with him in behalf of Mendoza. He yelled, lunged at me with a knife, and I grabbed him by the throat and pressed him up against the rocks. Then I watched the light leave his eyes. I wrapped things up quite nicely by tying him up in a tree. Actually," he shifted his eyes to meet with hers as if challenging her. His voice now had a thoughtful quality to it. "I'm quite shocked that it took so long for anybody to find him."

He watched in quiet amusement as she seemed to visibly choke on her words. _Bitch,_ he thought venomously to himself.

Finally, she closed her mouth and took in a deep breath. Then, after a few audible swallows, she nodded. "I see," she said. She cleared her throat. "Well then, I'm going to get going. If we need anything answered, someone will be back to talk to you."

"Someone? You mean, you're going to get someone else to talk to me so that you don't have to come back."

Brennan kept her eyes locked on his as she nodded. "Yeah, something like that. I can work better in an environment where I'm not being insulted by somebody with no grounds on which to do so."

He snorted in disbelief. "No grounds? How the hell can you say I have no grounds to insult you? I have every right to, you know. It's not like you were quite there for me when I left."

"Well maybe I couldn't be."

"Couldn't be? Then where the hell were you? I don't really think that sleeping with some guy is a very good excuse, do you?"

She was shaking all over. Her hands trembled as they clutched the file and her legs quivered from standing as if that simple act took more energy than she had available to her. She had to get out of there now, she realized. This time, the decision wasn't out of fear. It was out of a cold sadness that was seeping through her veins. No longer could she endure the hard stare of the man that had once been so gentle and so kind to her. It was her fault, she knew, but there was a silent desperation along with the chill for her to leave and hide in her apartment where she could drink her way to a place where she didn't have to look at the ruins of a life that she once took for granted.

"Fine." Her voice came out in a whisper as she looked away from the shadow of a man. "I guess you're right. Sleeping with a man is no excuse for not being there for you." She closed her eyes briefly before opening them and then turned and walked slowly out of the kitchen. He followed a few paces away and when she had the door open, she paused only briefly before squaring her shoulders and leaving him behind in the cold, dark living room.

"We've got it, Sir."

"This better be good."

"It is, sir. I've figured something out about your…Agent."

"Enlighten me, please."

"Well, apparently, there's a woman that he was involved with before he came to Chicago."

"…."

"Yes, well, she used to work with him. She's still in D.C., too, so she should be easy enough to get a hold of."

"Are we sure that he will bite, though? He never took an interest in any of our women. I can't see him doing anything stupid for some female agent, involved or not."

"Well, she's not really an agent, but apparently they worked together for a good two years or so before he left and my sources say that they were very, _very_ close."

"Well…I guess there isn't much left to lose. When can you get to work?"

"Not yet, sir. We need to give him time to become attached again."

"Yes…Yes, you're right. We'll give it a few days. We've got plenty of time…so much time left to us…. Nice work, Jack. Very nice work, indeed."

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

**If you have any predictions about Jack, please keep them between you and me and not on the comments. I don't want anything wasted and this was about as subtle as a guy wearing a scream mask in a mall filled with Santas. Couldn't find another way to do it, though. Feel free to send me your predictions. I love input.**

**Speaking of which. See that little button down at the bottom left corner of this page? It's a sort of blue-gray color. Push it. Send me a line. You know you want to. Those little seemingly inconsequential messages mean the world to me.**

**Lots of love for the patience you all show,  
Deamon**


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